Anne Palumbo: On gall bladders, painkillers and Santa sightings

Yes, yes, this year’s holiday newsletter is a tad early, but I just couldn’t wait to share the juicy news. I’m on painkillers! Great, big, pie-eyed painkillers!

Anne Palumbo

Dear family and friends,

Happy holidays 2008!

Yes, yes, this year’s holiday newsletter is a tad early, but I just couldn’t wait to share the juicy news. I’m on painkillers! Great, big, pie-eyed painkillers!

Huh? No, that’s not right. I just had my gall bladder out – that’s the big news. The painkillers are just a value-added benefit.

(Excuse me while I partake.)

Anyway, I’m writing to let you know that everything went as smooth as a doctor’s Mont Blanc pen, despite my hyper-vigilance and medical meddling. Can I help it if I can actually see bacteria hopping from cotton ball to cotton ball? Germs multiplying at the rate of mortgage foreclosures? Viruses mutating faster than an athlete’s story about steroid use?

Bold as this may sound, the surgery was not the most difficult part of my journey. Hardly. In fact, I would take Abdominal Roto-Rooting (medical term for gall bladder surgery) any day over what preceded it. I am talking about pre-op, OK? The time spent preparing me for surgery.

Having never undergone surgery to date, which is wildly fortunate I know, I was naive about the ins and outs of this preparatory stage. To be honest, I imagined I would be gently summoned from the waiting room, asked to change into a gown with a delicious fluff factor, blanketed with warmed-over Egyptian sheets, soothed with melodic music from Kenny G, and promptly given enough Valium to collapse my infrastructure.

Well! My actual experience couldn’t have been further from what I had envisioned! OK, yes, I was called from the waiting room, by a very nice nurse at that. But here’s what made my blood pressure soar: When she called my name, I firmly detected she said “Ann” not “Anne.” No “e”! All you “Anne’s” out there know what I’m talking about.
(Excuse me, it’s time for my next pain pill.)

Where was I? Ah, yes, pre-op. Although the gown was tissue-thin and the rigid sheets made a crackling sound when I scrunched them under my disillusioned chin, I got over all that. I even resigned myself to no Kenny G and no massive influx of Valium the minute my foot stepped into the little prep room. I’m a fighter, you see, a person who can make lemonade out of lemons, relish out of pickles, orange juice out of O.J. Simpson…

(Excuse me, it’s time to double up on my PPs.)

What I couldn’t bear, however, what made my nostril hairs piloerect (medical term for “hair standing on end”), was the fact that I could clearly hear the woman in the stall next to me, who was having the same surgery. Everything would have been hunky-dory if she had been a calm individual, asking measured questions. I may have even cracked the curtain and given her a thumbs-up. But, as misfortune would have it, she was gripped by hysteria, pounding the attendants with “What if’s?” and “Why me’s?” and “I want outta here’s!”

(Excuse me, I know it’s time to do something, even though I can’t remember what.)

Anyway, you can imagine my distress! I had no choice but to jam my fingers in my ears and loudly hum Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” actions which gleefully resulted in a rapid-fire infusion of Sleepy Juice. The rest is foggy history.

I should go. Santa just arrived. That’s right – ol’ St. Nickaroo. He’s standing in my office now, wondering what’s for dinner. Doesn’t he have a sleigh to guide?
I’d sign off, but I forgot my name.

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